Budapest's snow
by Sarah Livel
Summary: Oh, what a simple times those were… Right coat, good cigarette, and better liquor were enough for everyone. Women were classical ladies, man sweet players, and friends all you could ask for. PruAus. Oneshot.


**Budapest snow**

 _A song so dear to my heart inspired me to write this. Oneshot. Originally meant to be USUK or PruHun but decided that it better fits PruAus. Set around 1980 in Budapest._

Oh, what a simple times those were… Right coat, good cigarette, and better liquor were enough for everyone. Women were classical ladies, man sweet players, and friends all you could ask for. Europe was still raw, people were bitter and medicine for that bad taste was to wash it away in the pub. Oh and was it done in the proper way. People know how to drink back then. Pubs were warm and the air in them stale, the lights were soft and orange, good music was played and alcohol was drunk cold.

On that one particular winter, Gilbert found himself in Hungary. Only God himself knew how he got there. He was what you would call a tramp. Spending his twenties wandering around the Europe, changing women and men every few nights, drinking with people he would only see that once like they were old pals… His life was going nowhere. That grief and bitterness ate him from the core, but he was still one charming lad.

With the strange sense of humor and that devilish smirk and the mischievous look in the eyes, few of them could resist him. How well he knew that could show you his flawless posture, confidence that dribbled from his tongue at all occasions and shameless … Never having much trouble getting ones he wanted, strange, jet beautiful Austrian gave him a headache.

They met just before the sunset, in snowed Budapest, and from the first moment, he lied his eyes upon that gorgeous creature Gilbert had a bad premonition that nothing will ever be the same. Always being the shameless one, Roderich's sarcastic comebacks threw him a little bit out of balance. Young Austrian intrigued every bit of his being. From the way, his hair, on top of the brunet head, refused to come down and those almost like violet eyes to his soothing voice and rich accent. The liquor was best that night, atmosphere intoxicating and looks he got from violet-eyed plain breathtaking.

Morning came too soon. Sleeping brunet still in his arms, skin to skin, and Gilbert wished to repeat that day of his life. And he did something fairly unknown to him: he fell back asleep. Smelling the light scent of the man next to him, stroking the soft skin of his pale face, Prussian let a chuckle escape his lips and let out a sigh. He'll leave tomorrow.

Except he didn't. Brunet led him through The city of the bridges, showed him the beauty of, then, white capital, talked about how he knew this place so good, talked about his past, about his wife that died a few years ago, and Gilbert found himself watching in awe, listening, not daring to interrupt. He was smitten by the way that Austrian's lips moved, the way he walked, by that proud posture… And he couldn't bring himself to leave many mornings after.

Gilbert slipped one step further just a week after. Heroes Square. That was where he wished that young man could be his. Snow was falling, slowly, night was quiet, Gilbert's heart beat faster when the realization hit him. Cold sweat soaked him, hairs on the back of his neck stood up and red eyes of his widened. He had to leave, was the next thought that overcame him.

On his last night in Budapest Gilbert wished for something 'homemade'. On Roderich's questioning look, he just shrugged, saying that he always drink something like that before leaving. He ignored flash of hurt in the violet eyes and pulled the bottle of Tokay out. They didn't drink like usually, no. This time, it was slowly, tasting the sweetness of the wine, just like the kisses shared between the two that night.

A nicely folded piece of paper settled in albino's hand as he watched dark figure walk down Szentharomsag street. Roderich asked him to write, at least once. After a second of hesitation, Gilbert kissed him, leaving the promise invalid. Looking up from the steps on the snow he got the urge to scream, to get beautiful man's attention, to bring him back, or go after him. Ah, but his pride was stronger and like many times before, left him in regret.

The neat paper was wrinkled in his fist. He found it hard to part his fingers and let the rich handwriting go. His heart throbbed, fist refused to cooperate, but, after a final clench of it, the paper was gone. He blinked fast few times, blaming the cold air for his watery eyes and laughed. For a moment he just stood there, not really knowing where to go, but choosing the general direction, just to get away from there. He didn't look back after that.

And sometimes, when the snow falls slowly Gilbert thinks about that man, because of whom his heart still flutters. He thinks about the conversation they had, recalling every word they exchanged, he thinks about the way those lips fit with his, as no other so far could surpass, he doubt any ever will. He thinks about those nights they had, the pleasures they shared. His red eyes would slide shut and he would ask no one in particular: Does the brunet think about him? Or does he kiss someone else just from spite?

Blonde would just chuckle, or bite his lip, and think about what could be if he wrote that letter. Jet he still knows that if he was ever to be in that moment again, he would throw the paper away. And he would regret it all over again. But it was better this way. Love was not something he enjoyed, the grief he prefers.


End file.
